


always alone

by thomasbarrowlesbian



Series: always summer, always alone [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, and finally finished it 4 years later with motivation from nikkie helpmemarty, i started writing this when 6x08 first aired, so you can all blame her, this is a bit of a downer sorry, thomas and peter had a summer romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 03:55:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21570406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thomasbarrowlesbian/pseuds/thomasbarrowlesbian
Summary: Thomas and Bertie reminisce about Peter Pelham.
Relationships: Edith Crawley/Bertie Pelham, Thomas Barrow & Bertie Pelham, Thomas Barrow/Peter Pelham
Series: always summer, always alone [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1554532
Comments: 30
Kudos: 100





	always alone

When Carson had announced the demise of Bertie Pelham’s late cousin to the servants hall, Thomas was stunned by the severity of the hollow feeling in his chest. Not only because Carson’s words were offhand, casual even. Of course, they had no reason not to be. Peter’s name wouldn’t mean anything to him nor anyone else at the table. But it did to Thomas, and he was taken aback by the effect a man he hadn’t seen in over fifteen years had on him. 

“Did they say how he died, Mr Carson?” Thomas’ voice was hoarse and he couldn’t bring himself to move his eyes from where they were locked absently on the plate of toast before him. He didn’t have the will power to pass his question off as just casual curiosity.

“It’s rather morbid to be discussing such details over breakfast, don't you think, Mr Barrow? But yes - not that it's any of our business,” Carson grumbled reluctantly. “It was malaria.”

It wasn't malaria. 

Thomas knew it, despite there being nothing in Carson’s tone to cause any skepticism. He couldn’t help his eyes drifting closed in understanding. The realisation seized ahold of him, and his entire body was consumed by nausea unique to the awareness that someone you once knew was now dead in the ground.

“One thing - don't forget Mr Pelham is now the Marquess of Hexham, when you address him.”

* * *

“What was it about Tangiers that your cousin enjoyed so much?”

Bertie Pelham had arrived at Downton that afternoon on the 12 o'clock train. His visit was under the guise of a casual call, though everyone, both upstairs and downstairs, knew it's real purpose was to discuss the status of his potential engagement to Lady Edith. The toffs had felt the need to offer their condolences about Bertie’s cousin over lunch, and this meant Thomas was forced to stand around serving them drinks while they discussed _Lord Hexham_ in the kind of poised, cautious manner that Peter would have detested.

“Who knows? He used to talk of going down to the beach and watching the young fishermen bring in the nets. How the setting sun would make the scene magical until everything was suddenly plunged into darkness.” 

“Goodness. How lyrical.”

“He _was_ lyrical. He was an artist. In his heart, anyway.” 

Thomas stilled only a moment as he filled the glass, his expression tightening. He had known those sweet and tender parts of Peter’s heart intimately, just as he had known the darker parts.

Just as he knew Peter had killed himself. 

Because he knew well enough by now if a man like him had been announced as dead, suicide or murder were the likely culprits.

And because Thomas _knew_ Peter, the ups and downs of him, the way his mood would hurtle from high to low in the blink of an eye. It was somewhat morbid how easily Thomas could read the signs, looking back. It was those same signs that made him recognise Edward’s depression, made him acknowledge the potentially severe consequences of sending Edward away. The signs that he didn’t fight hard enough to save Edward from. 

And now yet another person Thomas had cared for and had cared for him was dead. 

All day images of Peter laid in Edward’s blood soaked sheets haunted him to the bone.

* * *

Thomas was still in a daze as he began to clear the glasses from the drawing room, which was why it took him a moment to realise Bertie Pelham was still present, despite the rest of the men having turned in.

“Oh.” Thomas came to a halt as he realised he wasn’t alone in the drawing room. “I do apologise, my lord. I thought everyone had gone up.”

“No, you're right, I should have.” Bertie set his empty glass on the side table as he rose from his chair. “Good night, Barrow. And do stop calling me ‘my lord’, until after the funeral.”

Thomas hesitated. He was aware this was as much of an opening as he was bound to get to ask Pelham about his suspicions. Bertie picked up on his reluctance.

“Was there something else?”

“May I ask you a question, Mr Pelham?”

“Sure, you may.” Bertie studied his face, the beginnings of a frown working its way to his forehead.

“I don't wish to act at all impertinent… sir.” Thomas spoke cautiously. “You see, I knew Peter - the late Marquess of Hexham, I mean. I wanted to give you my condolences.”

Bertie's jaw clenched at the mention of his late cousin.

“We were… friends, for a time in my youth. We kept in touch, and I just, I had to ask… That is, would I be right to assume…?” Thomas’ voice dropped so low that it was barely audible, even in the silent room. “It wasn't malaria.”

What was meant to be a question came out as more of a statement than he had intended, perhaps because, in his heart of hearts, he already knew it to be true. Bertie's face crumpled even more.

“No.”

The lump that had imbedded itself in Thomas’ throat from the moment he had heard the news rose dangerously. His gaze dropped to the carpet as his vision began to blur with tears. It was strange, he thought, how the confirmation could at once be both surprising and unsurprising. The worst case scenario had just come to pass, and yet he was so grossly accustomed to loss that he couldn’t find it within himself to be shocked.

“No, it wasn’t malaria.” Bertie continued. “Cousin Peter, he…” 

“That's what I thought.” Thomas sniffed and dragged his fingers across the bridge of his nose. He forced his eyes from the floor back into his standard blank expression, straightening his posture. “Thank you, sir. Good night.” He turned away from the other man, intending to return back downstairs.

“Wait-” Bertie called after him, his tone bordering on desperate. “Barrow-”

Thomas whirled around to see Bertie's face flushed with the distress of grief. “Yes, sir?”

“You say you knew him.” Bertie’s voice came out broken as if he were choking back a sob. Thomas’ only reply was a hesitant nod. 

“Could you tell me about him?”

“Surely you knew him better than I, sir.” 

“I believe that's true, yes. It's just, well… Lady Edith, and her whole family, really, have been so kind to me in this time. But what I really want is to talk about my cousin with someone who knew him. The real him, I mean. My family knew him, of course, but they never really understood him. They never appreciated him for what he was. So… will you? Sit with me a minute?”

Thomas studied the man’s face. There was something there, in the shadow below his bottom lip, or the bridge of his nose, or the way his brow furrowed, something that was purely Peter. 

Though maybe he was just that desperate for some sort of proof Peter had been real, that he had known him and been known by him.

“Alright.”

Bertie returned to the chair he had been seated in earlier and gestured for Thomas to take the one opposite to him. Thomas glanced at the doorway, unsure whether to commit this social indiscretion.

“Oh, do sit. You won't be in trouble, not with me here.”

Thomas didn't quite believe Mr Carson would care who was here with him should he be found sitting in one of the family's elaborate armchairs while he was meant to be working, but he does as Bertie asks anyway.

“So?” Bertie looked upon Thomas expectantly. “How did you know Peter?”

“Well-” Thomas shifted uncomfortably in the chair. He was unsure how he could talk about Peter at all without revealing the true nature of their relationship. “We were…”

“Lovers.”

“Yes.” Thomas choked out. His heart pounded in his ears and even his fingertips prickled with dread. He had never been so bold, so brazen, in admitting this truth about himself, but he couldn't find it in himself to deny the truth to this mourning man.

“I thought so.” Bertie had retrieved his empty glass and was running his thumbs around the rim as he stared into the crystalline pattern. “I knew, about Peter. Everybody knew about Peter, I suppose. He wasn't known for his subtlety. And unfortunately for some, that one part of him rendered all the rest obsolete. His kindness, his cleverness, his creativity, none of that mattered to any of them.” A bitter look crossed his face and his gaze rose to meet Thomas’. 

“It mattered to me,” Thomas assured him. “He was ever so sweet to me. Not in a martyrish way, like most of ‘em, but genuine, and kind. He was kinder to me than anyone’s ever been, and he made me kinder too. I can be rather nasty.” His expression turned wry. “But not with him. He would say such lovely things, he was so poetic. And ridiculously optimistic. Sometimes idiotically so.” The nostalgic smile that had settled on Thomas’ face as he spoke quickly fell away as he realised his words may be taken as mean-spirited. “I mean-”

“No, he _was_ an idiot.” Bertie snorted fondly. “How did you meet?”

“He came to stay one summer, at a house I used to work for. It wasn’t for very long, two weeks perhaps? Three at the most. It seemed to go by even faster, but the impression it had on me... I felt as though I’d known him forever.” Thomas shifted uneasily at the intensity of his own words. He was already sharing more that he meant to. “I was winding a clock in the drawing room, and Peter walked in… There I was, all pressed and polished, not a hair out of place, and this _gentleman_ wanders in looking as though he had just rolled out of bed.”

“He probably had.” Bertie grinned. “He was never one for presentation. He would usually be wearing more paint than ended up on his canvases.” 

“He painted me, once.“

“Was it any good?”

“Were they ever any good?”

Bertie let out a guffaw, surprised and gleeful, which made Thomas smile too. “He thought they were, so I suppose that's all that matters.”

Thomas hummed. “The whole point of art is that it’s meant to make you feel something, isn't it? His did. I had a couple half days, during his visit. We would take a picnic out to the countryside, and once he brought his paints and did my portrait. The fact he thought I was important enough to paint… It was silly, I guess.” Thomas flushed. “But not to me. Before him, men had only been interested in me for one thing. But it was like he really cared for me. He wanted to spend time with me, to talk with me. He really wanted to know what I had to say.” 

Bertie looked at him with recognition. “I know what you mean. He had a way of making you feel like the most special person in the world. Anyone who was put off by him, it was their loss.“ Bertie’s expression was one of such melancholy Thomas got the impression that not many people in Bertie’s life had made him feel valued like Peter had. 

Guilt latched onto his guts and twisted.

“Peter asked me to run away with him,” Thomas blurted out. “And I couldn’t have, it was ridiculous, it wouldn’t have worked - but I still… I can’t help but think, if I had....” He didn’t finish the thought, and he didn’t have to. He could tell by how Bertie was looking at him that he knew exactly what he meant.

The memory of Peter’s detailed and far-fetched plan to whisk Thomas away with him to Tangiers was one that had weighed on him ever since he had received the news of his death. The suspension of disbelief needed to even consider Peter's plan was near laughable, but he would be lying if he said _hadn’t_ considered it. As much as he liked to pretend otherwise, he had always yearned to be shown a grand romantic gesture, and the idea of an honest-to-God marquess wanting to sail him to Morocco to eat fruit and sunbathe and act as his muse and lover… Well, if Thomas had been even slightly more of an optimist, he would have been more than convinced.

Thomas had tried to let him down as gently as he could, but he couldn’t stop his blunt nature from seeping through when he had confronted Peter with more level-headed protests - what if they were found out? What if Peter was cut off and no longer had his family fortune to fall back on? How would they earn for themselves? What if Peter grew bored of him? They had barely known each other for a few weeks, after all. Thomas’ list of objections had left Peter moody and on edge for the final days of his stay, and they had not departed on the best of terms. Though Thomas had eventually managed to sweeten him up in the way of affectionate letters, Peter’s replies had grown less and less frequent in the following years. Thomas had assumed he had just gotten occupied with his travels or found a new beau, but now it seemed Peter had just been distancing himself as he spiralled into hopelessness.

The gnawing guilt was a burden that kept polluting his thoughts. Thomas hadn’t considered this significant crossroad in his life for years, but now he couldn’t refrain from letting his mind race down alternate paths. How different his life would be, if he had just said yes. He could have been loved. And surely he could have changed things for Peter. Surely he could have loved him. 

Surely he could have _saved_ him.

“With tragedies such as these, I suspect you will always feel like there was something you could have done. Something you should have done.” The bitterness that accompanied Bertie’s words betrayed that he bore guilt of his own. “It’s human nature. But honestly… Well, you knew how Peter was. He always felt things so intensely. When he was happy, he was so excited about everything, practically euphoric.“ His face darkened from wistful remembrance to a look of grim acceptance. “But when he wasn’t, it was like the end of the world. I don’t believe there was anything any one person could’ve done to stop him, once he got into that state of mind.”

“I know that. I do. Some of the things he would say... That’s why I guessed…” Thomas pulled at the fraying fingers of his glove self-consciously. ”I mean, I'd _hoped_ it really was malaria, though that sounds horrible to say out loud. But I didn't expect it to be.”

“I understand. It seems harder to… digest, somehow. Knowing he was that unhappy in his life.... It’s hard to comprehend.”

But it _wasn’t_ hard for Thomas to comprehend. In fact, he knew the feeling intimately. He couldn’t help but think of his therapy, of the downward spiral he had fallen into with no chance of escape. 

“Most men like us I'd met hated themselves, openly or otherwise. I thought we were different. But now it seems we were both just pretending.”

“Living in a world that alienated him, rejected him for who he was, it definitely took a toll on him. The isolation… “ Bertie grimaced and shook his head. “But I don't think Peter did what he did because he hated himself. He was sick. That's all.”

“I think _I’m_ sick, sometimes.” His words were a whisper, reluctant and ashamed and the severity of them made him take in a sharp, shaky breath. Peter had often told him that their problem was with the world and not themselves, and Thomas had believed him back then. But since then, he had been through hell. He knew people must wonder what had happened to that man from all those years ago, the man who had looked Carson in the eye and told him that he was _not_ foul - but Thomas was beginning to doubt that man had ever really existed. That his confidence had ever been more than a mask, a necessary armour if he wanted to survive in a world that was at war with him. No, he didn't think he was foul. But loss and heartbreak had begun to chip away at his defensive facade until there was barely any left to protect him. Jimmy’s dismissal. Edward’s death. Sybil’s death. The war. O'Brien’s betrayal. The unsureness in his future. His lack of purpose. Each heartache had hacked and scraped away at him and now that uncertain, lonely man he felt he always had been underneath was exposed raw to everyone around him. 

He was never able to fully trust anyone should they decide to turn against him. This left Thomas alone with only his thoughts - thoughts that had always crept into his mind only for him to push them away. But over time they had gotten more constant, more aggressive, worming their way into his brain as he tried to sleep at night, like maggots in a corpse. Thoughts that would lead to him ending up just like Peter. 

The idea filled him with both terror and an unnerving sense of relief.

“Can you talk to someone about it?” Bertie was all sincerity as he stared at Thomas intensely.

“That’s easier said than done. No one here has any reason to want to help me. I’ve pushed them all away, and now it’s too _late_ for me.” His speech was getting increasingly distressed and he couldn’t even tell if he was making sense any more. He forced himself to take a deep breath and released it slowly through his nose, but even that couldn’t stop the burning of oncoming tears in his eyes. “Being this way… it’s made me cruel. It’s _rotted_ me from the inside out, but it only made him kinder... I could never understand it. And now Peter’s gone. And I’m still here,” he said with resentment.

“Peter let things get pent up. He took them out on himself. And that’s what destroyed him in the end.

He had so much empathy, but sometimes that meant he felt other’s pain so strongly he didn’t know where to put it all.” Bertie leaned in towards Thomas and spoke with purpose. ”He went to Tangiers to isolate himself. Even if you _had_ run off with him, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything would’ve been different.”

“But if I had gone with him, that would’ve made him happy. He _told_ me so.” His voice wavered with a gentle desperation and he gasped shallowly with the effort it took to abstain from crying.

“Yes, but he also used to say the same about drinking, and staying up all night, and eating dessert for every meal. He didn’t know what was good for him.” Bertie said gently, with a pointed and humorous look.

Thomas let out a surprised scoff.

“Yes,” he agreed, digging the heels of his palms into his eye sockets to cease the tears. “You’re probably right.”

And suddenly all the emotions he was experiencing overflowed into a fit of teary, choking snickers he couldn’t stop. It immediately set Bertie off as well, and now Thomas was laughing, truly laughing, and he couldn't remember the last time he had laughed with someone, certainly not since before Jimmy left, he didn't know he _could_.

“Bertie?”

Thomas stood abruptly at Lady Edith's entrance, attempting to straighten out his expression. 

“Oh, is that the time?” Bertie rose also, a trace of humour still lingering on his face. “I should let you go, Barrow. I'm sure you're busy.” 

“Yes, sir.” Thomas bowed his head slightly.

“Thank you, Barrow. You've put me in much better spirits.” 

“The same for me, sir.” And with that Thomas finally made his way back to the servant's hall - to have his ear chewed off by Mr Carson, no doubt.

“What was that about?” Edith asked as soon as Thomas was out of earshot.

“Barrow was giving me his condolences, and we got to talking. He was acquainted with cousin Peter in his youth. He seems to be a good sort.”

“I'm afraid not many around here would agree with you, though I'm an exception."

“Why’s what?”

"He's caused some trouble in the past, though I don't know much about it. And I think he often just rubs people the wrong way.” Edith’s tone turned almost apologetic. “But he's awfully good with the children, he's never treated Marigold any differently. Though Sybbie has always been his favourite, I think. He and Sybil worked together in the war, and the way Sybil spoke of him, I think they were quite fond of each other." Edith gave a sad smile that always accompanied thoughts of her late sister. 

"Besides,” she continued, “he saved my life once. Did you know that? He ran through a fire, like something out of a novel, and rescued me from my own stupidity."

"I see I have more to thank him for than I could ever have imagined." Bertie said, taking Edith's gloved hand in his own.

"As do I.” She squeeze his hand and smiles at him meaningfully. “And I do feel quite sorry for him. I'm afraid the employee cutbacks have hit him rather badly. They've been bound to happen for a while, Papa doesn't have much need for an under-butler. Not these days. I think Barrow's having a bit of a hard time finding a new position."

An idea was occuring to Bertie, and if it didn’t make him sound like a madman, he might say that it was cousin Peter who had sent it to him from the afterlife, wherever he was now. The world had shown no mercy to neither Peter nor Thomas. There was nothing he could do for Peter, not anymore, but he _could_ fight for Thomas.

"Well, why don't we take Barrow with us? To Brancaster?"

“What?”

“A residence like that, we could use an under-butler, especially while we’re getting everything settled. And not to be crass, but our current butler is on his last leg. Barrow would be promoted sooner rather than later. I’m sure there’ll be a quarrel with my dear mother, but knowing her there’ll be a quarrel regardless. And he seems qualified for the job.“ 

“I would say so, yes.” A grin was forming on her face.

“I’m… Well in truth, I’m rather concerned for him. He seems to be rather low. He might appreciate the change of scenery. And if he’s good to Marigold, and you think well of him... what do you say?”

“I would like that, very much. And I daresay so would he.”

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thomas moves to a new county where he and his employers mutually respect and appreciate each other. Thomas is hired as the under butler of Brancastle, but also acts as Bertie's valet whenever he and Edith go to visit Downton, so Sybbie and George get to see their favourite butler. He also accompanies Edith to London when she visits her magazine office, and he soon meets a group of gay friends, including his hot bf (a royal valet perhaps?) who Bertie and Edith pretend they don't know about but they totally do. With a new setting, sense of purpose and being surrounded by ppl who accept and support him, he thrives and he is happy. 
> 
> Inspired by the Alastair Bruce interview from this podcast: https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/masterpiece/podcasts/masterpiece-studio/downton-abbey-bonus-dont-ask-dont-tell/ 
> 
> “Well, the British have always been disinclined to accept human nature, and I think there are still plenty of nations in the world that stridently try and pretend that humanity should not be what it is. But in this period, when morality was laid out and writ large by the church, and generations of self denial, I think nobody wanted to loosen their guard on anything that people had endured a lifetime of misery to deny. And that's what I think Thomas feels trapped by, because even in a big country house, where very often a large proportion of the male staff were homosexual, he can see no future. I mean, oddly, really, in the Downton Abbey that's written by Julian Fellowes, there's remarkably little homosexuality… And it's tragic, really, to feel your understanding grow at why the marquess had died. And to feel your understanding realised when you see Thomas, surrounded by blood, and in the last flickers of life.”


End file.
